Capturing the Crown. Linda Winstead Jones

briefly at the man she said them to.

      Russell’s expression remained unreadable. She could feel the frost forming around her heart.

      Lucia Cordez, dressed in a stunning, blue street-length dress that lovingly adhered to every supple curve her finely trimmed, martial-arts-trained body had to offer, dabbed subtly at her light blue eyes as she pretended to be moved by the ceremony she and so many others were attending.

      No one had questioned her presence. With a Latin father and a mother who was half African American, half Caucasian, and blessed with model-perfect good looks, Lucia had the kind of face and bearing that easily allowed her to fit in anywhere people of quality gathered.

      She’d arrived in Silvershire a little more than an hour ago, just in time to catch Carrington before he left for the church. She’d put a few pertinent questions to the duke, the most important of which was whether he knew the whereabouts of the late prince’s laptop. He’d had the presence of mind to place it under lock and key within his own room.

      Lucia had commended him for his action and taken possession of the key. The moment the reception got underway, she intended to make herself scarce and get started hacking into the prince’s computer files. Because Reginald had been Silvershire’s future king, his files had been highly secured with intricate pass codes that only he had known. She had come prepared. Cracking them could take her a matter of hours, or it could take as long as several months. Optimistically, she hoped for somewhere in between.

      There was no time like the present to get started. But, for the moment, Lucia allowed herself to enjoy the wedding. It was the last word in opulence. Silvershire was not without its resources. And she had always had a fondness for pomp and ceremony. It was leagues away from her own background.

      It was what she aspired to.

      It felt as if the reception would never end.

      Part of Amelia had nursed the hope that it wouldn’t, because part of her was afraid of this moment, when the reception was on its way to becoming just a memory and she was alone in the royal bedroom with her new husband. Not afraid the way she would have been just a few short days ago, but afraid because of the issue that had sprung up between her and Russell. The issue that still remained unresolved, at least for Russell. And maybe, just in the tiniest bit, for her.

      She released the breath she was holding. This was absurd. They were married now. They were a united couple before God and the world. It was time to begin acting like one.

      Amelia turned around to say something to Russell, who had remained almost eerily quiet since they’d left the ballroom and entered the bedroom. She was still acutely aware that he had refrained from carrying her over the threshold.

      To her surprise, she saw that her brand-new husband was crossing back to the doorway. His hand was on the doorknob and he looked as if he intended to leave. A strange chill passed over her.

      “Where are you going?”

      He glanced in her direction. Wished she didn’t look as beautiful as she did. Wished she didn’t move him the way she did. She was still in her wedding dress, looking as pure as she should have been had he not given in to his earthier instincts. “To my quarters.”

      She stared at him, puzzled. “Aren’t these your quarters?”

      He didn’t think of them in that way. He’d always felt himself a visitor in the palace, no matter how many nights he’d spent here. “They’re the quarters reserved for the wedding night.”

      Because he hadn’t moved away from the door, Amelia crossed to him, taking off her headpiece and veil as she approached. She tossed them onto a wing chair as she passed it.

      “Correct me if I’m wrong.” Amelia began to take the pins out of her hair. “But doesn’t the wedding night follow the wedding?”

      He watched, unable to draw his eyes away, as her hair came cascading down like sunbeams. “Yes.”

      Amelia ran her fingers through her hair, loosening the last of the trapped strands. “And weren’t we the bride and groom involved in the wedding?”

      His mouth felt dry. She was distracting him. He had to remember why he had been so determined to walk away. It wasn’t easy. “Yes.”

      “Then these should be our quarters,” she concluded, stopping less than a hairbreadth away from him. “Jointly.”

      He squared his shoulders. She was making this hard. “Princess—”

      “Amelia,” she corrected, trying to bank down the sudden spike of frustration that shot through her. “My name is Amelia.” Despite her efforts, exasperation entered her voice. “Why won’t you call me that? Do I have to give you a flash card?”

      She had a point. It was something he was going to have to get used to. They were supposedly equals, now. “Amelia,” he repeated. “There’s no need for you to act out the charade.”

      She didn’t follow him. “What charade? That we’re married?”

      He struggled to maintain the distance between them. “We don’t have to behave like husband and wife.”

      “Why? Why don’t we have to behave like husband and wife? Why wouldn’t we want to behave like husband and wife?” she repeated, her temper heating.

      Did he have to spell it out for her? “Because the first element in a marriage is trust and you obviously don’t trust me—”

      She had had just about enough of this. “No,” Amelia cut in tersely. “You are the one who doesn’t trust me.”

      For a moment, she’d taken the air out of his sails. “What? I—”

      She wouldn’t let him continue, wouldn’t let him weave rhetoric until up was down and black was white. And as she spoke, her voice rose and anger came into her eyes, making them almost shoot sparks.

      “You don’t trust that I have common sense. You don’t trust that my heart will convince my somewhat confused mind that you are a decent, good man who could never, ever, have anything to do with the prince’s death. All you can do is shoot daggers at me and growl like some wounded, unforgiving bear.” As she spoke, she poked a finger into his chest, emphasizing her words.

      “I had a moment, a tiny moment, of doubt, of confusion. A lapse.” She held her forefinger and thumb up, to show him how tiny the occasion had actually been for her. “What does a moment count in the scheme of things? One moment in the face of a billion moments that comprise a lifetime. Our lifetime, if you could get off your high horse and stop looking at me like some wronged soldier who—”

      She never got to finish. Her words were inflaming him. She was inflaming him. Unable to resist her any longer, Russell pulled her into his arms.

      The next second, her mouth was covered with his.